


Rains passed

by Infante_terrible



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Children, Creation, Everyone Needs A Hug, Existential Crisis, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Flashbacks, Fluff, Forgiveness, Inspired by Music, Love, Marriage, Memories, Music Creation, Musicians, Romance, Slow Romance, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-04-07 09:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19081888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infante_terrible/pseuds/Infante_terrible
Summary: Ten long years © LNDTen long years can be different. Erik might have found little comfort in his theater in Coney Island, but the story turned differently, and his future becomes more important than the past.Despite the beauty of Love Never Dies, I could not put up with the way how Weber tortured his heroes in a sequel, and really wanted to give them an alternative story. Small but soulful fluff. For everyone who was injured by LND :))





	Rains passed

The window burst open. Freshly written sheets with musical scores scattered around the room with a wind gust.  
Eric swore. Over the last couple of months he did not write anything worthwhile - all notes seemed to flow through his fingers, his head was empty, and he heard just an inarticulate hum instead of the music, always sounding in his head. 

All new compositions seemed to be forced and strained. He was tired. Fatigue spread throughout the body, swirling in the air, like a thick fog. Eric grinned sadly - his inspiration for a while obviously decided to dress up in a rainy gray, with no difference with eternal fog outside the window. London was covered with endless drizzle, and it seemed that the rains were not going to leave. The Foggy Albion daily and nightly confirmed it's name.

Wet roofs, chimneys, cabs with quaking coachmen, hunched over under the weight of fog, hiding under immense raincoats.  
He liked London - this city had many faces. It was a living creature, both beautiful and disgusting, like himself. Erik drew inspiration from a mad union of beauty and frightening darkness, and London, with its grim and attractive soul, became an immaculate creative companion. Erik has never regretted that he left Paris and moved to England, but at such moments as now, he plunged into deaf longing.

Ten long years. He never guessed how long ten years could be. These years were infinitely long - as if he had lived a couple of lives since the moment his world fell apart in Paris. Every year he gradually tried to gather himself anew and build something on the ruins of the past.

Once in a dungeon he tried to break a huge mirror. Plenty of small fragments cut the skin and got stuck, so he could not play properly for several days. When he decided to let Christine go and stayed alone, he realized that his soul was scattered into small pieces, like that unfortunate mirror. The only difference was that it was impossible to remove these fragments, and they sank deeper, causing real physical pain. He woke up from heart pain, could not breathe deeply, and sometimes he simply layed and waited for everything to end, when his rugged heart would stop. Contrary to his expectations, heart was still beating. Time passed, and the pain gradually became lower, reminding of itself only in heavy memories - especially when he passed by the theater, trying not to look at it. Once the theater was his kingdom. Times changed, and Eric had to get used to another life, as in childhood - when he had to accept the fact that there is no longer an iron cell. As before he had to get used to the abcence of mother - she couldn't take care of him more. However, in fact, she never did. 

Eric picked up a new music sheet from the floor, looked through his own notes and sighed. Worthless.

"Worthless". Mother's voice repeated inside his mind as if it happened yesterday. The London fog definitely influenced him badly — Erik did not like to dive into these memories, and shook his head. It did not help.  
"Nature's mistake", mother said through clenched teeth, bent over him, like a huge black cloud. - "Freak."  
He did not remember her face. Many times he tried to restore the features, but he could not, and mother was imprinted in his memory only as a frightening figure, whose outlines promised another humiliation.

No, dear mom. I am not a mistake of nature. The mistake of nature was you. 

Writing music was like an act of breathing, and when silence reigned in his head, Eric went insane. It took a long time for him to accept that inspiration cannot last forever. The periods of silence sooner or later gave way to an exciting ascent, and then he became whole with the piano keys, ignoring the change of day and night.

Now he felt just some soft rustled silence inside. It merged with the gray veil outside the window, but did not overwhelm him with endless anguish. Previously it was like a torment, now - just sadness. Erik knew that sooner or later it would end, and he would pick up a quill and a music sheet again. He just had to wait for a while, although it did not bring any joy. His world was torn to pieces in France, and all these years fragments slowly but surely connected back. Now it looked like an old photograph glued together from numerous pieces.

The creak of the door ripped him out of his reflections. A shaggy head appeared in the doorway.

"Dad, Emil wants to take the last piece of the pie. Tell him it's bad! He is not right!" 

"This is my cake, Catherine!" he heard loud voice from the corridor. "You've already eaten your own".

“And the little ones have an advantage,” Catherine giggled cheekily, winding a strand of hair around her finger. "Yes, dad?"

“Well, no,” Eric said. "It is necessary to divide equally. In fairness".

Five-year-old Catherine, meanwhile, snuck into the room, diving past Emil, crawled onto her father's lap and stated:

"Swing. Will you give me a rocking chair for my birthday? I want the same".

“Why not,” Erik shrugged. "I will give you anything you want".

"And me?" Emil inquired, getting on the second knee. "I also want it".

"Divide it among yourselves. Like a cake,” he advised, embracing children in his arms. Catherine squealed merrily. The silence in his head was getting warm and calm.

The door opened again. With a reproachful smile Christine peeked into the room with a book under her arm.

“I knew you were here. Madame Blanche complained that you escaped from dinner and disappeared in an unknown direction. I told you, do not distract dad. Come on, don't disturb him".

“Come on, Christina,” Eric smiled. "Better come here. You are the best thing that can distract me ... Perhaps the only thing".

Eric looked at the London roofs through the wet glass, hugging his wife and two children, and knew that all rains sooner or later passed.


End file.
